Orpheus Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Orpheus. Here they are! All 200 of them:

Husband, we talked about this," Persephone chided. "You can't go around incinerating every hero. Besides, he's brave. I like that." Hades rolled his eyes. "You liked that Orpheus fellow too. Look how well that turned out.
Rick Riordan (The Last Olympian (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, #5))
Nothing is as contagious as enthusiasm. It is the real allegory of the myth of Orpheus; it moves stones, and charms brutes. It is the genius of sincerity, and truth accomplishes no victories without it.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
What on earth can you do on this earth but catch at whatever comes near you, with both your fingers, until your fingers are broken?
Tennessee Williams (Orpheus Descending)
Never forget that solitude is my lot ... I implore those who love me to love my solitude." (Letter to Mimi Romanelli, May 11, 1910)
Rainer Maria Rilke (In the Image of Orpheus: Rilke - A Soul History)
I had said goodbye to her once before, but it took everything I had to say goodbye to her then, again, for the last time, like poor Orpheus turning for a last backward glance at the ghost of his only love and in the same heartbeat losing her forever: hinc illae lacrimae, hence those tears.
Donna Tartt (The Secret History)
A glorious place, a glorious age, I tell you! A very Neon renaissance - And the myths that actually touched you at that time - not Hercules, Orpheus, Ulysses and Aeneas - but Superman, Captain Marvel, and Batman.
Tom Wolfe
They are Orpheus, she is Eurydice, and every time they turn back, she is ruined.
V.E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
The future is called "perhaps", which is the only possible thing to call the future. And the only important thing is not to allow that to scare you.
Tennessee Williams (Orpheus Descending)
For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Yet the story of Orpheus, it occurs to me, is not just about the desire of the living to resuscitate the dead but about the ways in which the dead drag us along into their shadowy realm because we cannot let them go. So we follow them into the Underworld, descending, descending, until one day we turn and make our way back.
Meghan O'Rourke
Want the change. Be inspired by the flame where everything shines as it disappears. The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much as the curve of the body as it turns away. What locks itself in sameness has congealed. Is it safer to be gray and numb? What turns hard becomes rigid and is easily shattered. Pour yourself like a fountain. Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins. Every happiness is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel, dares you to become the wind. - Sonnets To Orpheus, Part Two, XII
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Quiet friend who has come so far, feel how your breathing makes more space around you. Let this darkness be a bell tower and you the bell. As you ring, what batters you becomes your strength. Move back and forth into the change. What is it like, such intensity of pain? If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine. In this uncontainable night, be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses, the meaning discovered there. And if the world has ceased to hear you, say to the silent earth: I flow. To the rushing water, speak: I am. - Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
I wanted a guy like Orpheus. Orpheus has gone through Tartarus to rescue his wife—that was love. Hades probably didn't even know the meaning of the word love.
Kaitlin Bevis (Persephone (Daughters of Zeus, #1))
Perhaps he makes a choice. He chooses the memory of her. That’s why he turns. He doesn’t make the lover’s choice, but the poet’s.
Céline Sciamma (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Mortimer's face twisted when the Piper pressed his knife against his ribs. Oh yes, he's obviously made the wrong enemies in this story, thought Orpheus. And the wrong friends. But that was high-minded heroes for you. Stupid.
Cornelia Funke
The only way Addie knows how to keep going is to keep going forward. They are Orpheus, she is Eurydice, and every time they turn back, she is ruined.
V.E. Schwab
The show is over. The monkey's dead!
Tennessee Williams (Orpheus Descending)
If wishes solved problems, the world would be a very different place.
Jaye Wells (Silver-Tongued Devil (Sabina Kane, #4))
We speak in (rich) monotones. Our poetry is haunted by the music it has left behind. Orpheus shrinks to a poet when he looks back, with the impatience of reason, on a music stronger than death.
George Steiner (Errata: An Examined Life)
Fire he sang, that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames. New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer. As though his lyre (now I knew its name) were both frost and fire, its chords flamed up to the crown of me. I was seed again. I was fern in the swamp. I was coal. ("A Tree Telling of Orpheus")
Denise Levertov
Dear Camryn, I never wanted it to be this way. I wanted to tell you these things myself, but I was afraid. I was afraid that if I told you out loud that I loved you, that what we had together would die with me. The truth is that I knew in Kansas that you were the one. I’ve loved you since that day when I first looked up into your eyes as you glared down at me from over the top of that bus seat. Maybe I didn’t know it then, but I knew something had happened to me in that moment and I could never let you go. I have never lived the way I lived during my short time with you. For the first time in my life, I’ve felt whole, alive, free. You were the missing piece of my soul, the breath in my lungs, the blood in my veins. I think that if past lives are real then we have been lovers in every single one of them. I’ve known you for a short time, but I feel like I’ve known you forever. I want you to know that even in death I’ll always remember you. I’ll always love you. I wish that things could’ve turned out differently. I thought of you many nights on the road. I stared up at the ceiling in the motels and pictured what our life might be like together if I had lived. I even got all mushy and thought of you in a wedding dress and even with a mini me in your belly. You know, I always heard that sex is great when you’re pregnant. ;-) But I’m sorry that I had to leave you, Camryn. I’m so sorry…I wish the story of Orpheus and Eurydice was real because then you could come to the Underworld and sing me back into your life. I wouldn’t look back. I wouldn’t fuck it up like Orpheus did. I’m so sorry, baby… I want you to promise me that you’ll stay strong and beautiful and sweet and caring. I want you to be happy and find someone who will love you as much as I did. I want you to get married and have babies and live your life. Just remember to always be yourself and don’t be afraid to speak your mind or to dream out loud. I hope you’ll never forget me. One more thing: don’t feel bad for not telling me that you loved me. You didn’t need to say it. I knew all along that you did. Love Always, Andrew Parrish
J.A. Redmerski
Please don’t, above all, plant me in your heart. I grow too quick.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
What madness destroyed me and you, Orpheus?
Virgil (The Georgics)
Note to self: If Orpheus were a woman I wouldn't be stuck down here.
Ocean Vuong (Night Sky with Exit Wounds)
... and in the homosexual phase which would follow Eurydice's death ... Orpheus sings no more, he writes.
Jacques Derrida
And if the world has ceased to hear you, say to the silent earth: I flow. To the rushing water, speak: I am.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
And I think that it is certainly possible that the objective universe can be affected by the poet. I mean, you recall Orpheus made the trees and the stones dance and so forth, and this is something which is in almost all primitive cultures. I think it has some definite basis to it. I'm not sure what. It's like telekinesis, which I know very well on a pinball machine is perfectly possible.
Jack Spicer (The House That Jack Built: The Collected Lectures)
By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods; since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage, but music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night and his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
William Shakespeare (The Merchant of Venice)
You know, the thing about family is that you can choose it. And I choose you.
Brynne Rebele-Henry (Orpheus Girl)
Orpheus. Had the name he had taken ever suited him better? But he would be wilier than the singer whose name he had stolen. He would indeed. He would send another man into the realm of Death in the Fire-Dancer's place-and he'd make sure that he didn't come back.
Cornelia Funke (Inkdeath (Inkworld, #3))
Divine blood flows differently in each god-born child. Orpheus’ voice made the trees weep, Heracles could kill a man by clapping him on the back. Achilles’ miracle was his speed.
Madeline Miller (The Song of Achilles)
They chatter together like birds on Cypress Hill, but all they say is 'Live, live, live, live, live!' It's all they've learned, it's the only advice they can give.
Tennessee Williams (Orpheus Descending)
when you go to bed, don't leave bread or milk on the table: it attracts the dead. [sonnet 6]
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
What then did you expect when you unbound the gag that muted those black mouths? That they would chant your praises? Did you think that when those heads that our fathers had forcibly bowed down to the ground were raised again, you would find adoration in their eyes?
Jean-Paul Sartre (Black Orpheus)
Our own heart always exceeds us.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
Amid these fading and decaying things, be the glass that rings out as it's breaking.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Everybody yells at Orpheus and Lot's wife. Put yourself in their shoes for five minutes and you'd yell a lot less, I promise you.
T. Kingfisher (The Twisted Ones)
. . . Orpheus struck dumb with hindsight.
A.E. Stallings
Orpheus 2 He has been trying to sing Love into existence again And he has failed.
Margaret Atwood (Eating Fire: Selected Poetry 1965-1995)
In spite of all the farmer's work and worry, he can't reach down to where the seed is slowly transmuted into summer. The earth bestows.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Orpheus never liked words. He had his music. He would get a funny look on his face and I would say what are you thinking about and he would always be thinking about music. If we were in a restaurant sometimes Orpheus would look sullen and wouldn't talk to me and I thought people felt sorry for me. I should have realized that women envied me. Their husbands talked too much. But I wanted to talk to him about my notions. I was working on a new philosophical system. It involved hats. This is what it is to love an artist: The moon is always rising above your house. The houses of your neighbors look dull and lacking in moonlight. But he is always going away from you. Inside his head there is always something more beautiful. Orpheus said the mind is a slide ruler. It can fit around anything. Show me your body, he said. It only means one thing.
Sarah Ruhl (Eurydice)
The Sonnets to Orpheus, Part Two, XII Want the change. Be inspired by the flame where everything shines as it disappears. The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much as the curve of the body as it turns away.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Ah,yes!That...Silvertongue!" Orpheus spoke the name in a disparaging tone, as if he couldn't believe that anyone really deserved it. Yes, that's what he's called. How do you know?" There was no mistaking Dustfinger's surprise. The hellhound snuffled at Farid's bare toes. Orpheus shrugged. "Sooner or later you get to hear of everyone who can breate life into letters on a page.
Cornelia Funke (Inkspell (Inkworld, #2))
And it should feel good to hear her music, it should feel right. After all, she has gone to visit pieces of her art so many times. But they were only pieces, stripped of context. Sculptured birds on marble plinths, and paintings behind ropes. Didactic boxes taped to whitewashed walls and glass boxes that keep the present from the past. It is a different thing when the glass breaks. It is her mother in the doorway, withered to bone. It is Remy in the Paris salon. It is Sam, inviting her to stay, every time. It is Toby Marsh, playing their song. The only way Addie knows how to keep going is to keep going forward. They are Orpheus, she is Eurydice, and every time they turn back, she is ruined.
V.E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
Orpheus never liked words. He had his music. He would get a funny look on his face and I would say what are you thinking about and he would always be thinking about music.
Sarah Ruhl (Eurydice)
Being immortal did not make me invincible. Look at what the Bacchants did to that poor Orpheus fella.
Kevin Hearne (Hounded (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #1))
The butcher bird makes its noise And asks you to agree With its brutal nesting habits And its pointless savagery Now, the nightingale sings to you And raises up the ante I put one hand on your round ripe heart And the other down your panties
Nick Cave (The Lyre Of Orpheus)
Mandelstam was, one is tempted to say, a modern Orpheus: sent to hell, he never returned, while his widow dodged across one-sixth of the earth's surface, clutching the saucepan with his songs rolled up inside, memorizing them by night in the event they were found by Furies with a search warrant. These are our metamorphoses, our myths.
Joseph Brodsky (Less Than One: Selected Essays)
Myths are supposed to teach us something, but what’s the life lesson 
in this sad tale of Orpheus? No good deed goes unpunished? Fuck that, 
ain’t no such thing as a good deed. Love conquers all? Never has, never 
will. Maybe the moral of the story is that those in power are just as 
fucked up as those who ain’t and the worst thing a body can do is give up 
his or her own power to some buttheads on Mount Olympus ‘cause if they’re 
so fuckin’ powerful, how’d they let us get away with all this shit in the 
first place? Answer me that.
Augustus Hill
Do you know that old song about Orpheus, how he played his lyre on the mountainside, and found a lion had crouched at his feet to listen? I’m no Orpheus, I know; but sometimes I see the lion’s eyes. Where did it go, after the music, what became of it? The story doesn’t say.
Mary Renault (Fire from Heaven (Alexander the Great, #1))
She was in herself, like a woman near term, and did not think of the man, going on ahead, or the path, climbing upwards towards life. She was in herself. And her being-dead filled her with abundance. As a fruit with sweetness and darkness, so she was full with her vast death.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes: Notations On A Landscape)
An inarticulate scream of rage strangled me. I wanted to destroy something, to spend my anger against the unfairness of every thing. I wanted nothing more than to grapple with the Goblin King, to tear him from limb to limb, a Maenad against Orpheus. I tightened my hands into fists.
S. Jae-Jones (Wintersong (Wintersong, #1))
What an amusing drama life is when one is not obliged to be one of the characters!
Robertson Davies (The Lyre of Orpheus (Cornish Trilogy, #3))
[Hades] returned his attention to the playlist while I eased the car back on the road. His fingers flipped deftly over the screen. 'Orpheus...Dusk...Orpheus...Dusk...do you have anything on here that doesn't make people want to jump off a cliff?' ... 'I'm driving. When you learn to drive something more modern than a horse and buggy, we can listen to your music.' 'I can drive!' 'Did they even have cars the last time you can to the surface?' I teased. 'Yes.' 'Not counting the minute and a half you spent rescuing me last year?' Hades fell silent, and I laughed. 'I didn't think so.
Kaitlin Bevis
I'm not a huge student of the classics, but I know a little, and any hero worth his salt back in olden times seemed to have passed into the underworld on some quest or another. Odysseus, Orpheus, Perseus, the Winchesters.
James Fahy (Crescent Moon (Phoebe Harkness, #2))
Someday, emerging at last from the violent insight, let me sing out jubilation and praise to assenting angels. Let not even one of the clearly-struck hammers of my heart fail to sound because of a slack, a doubtful, or a broken string. Let my joyfully streaming face make me more radiant; let my hidden weeping arise and blossom. How dear you will be to me then, you nights of anguish. Why didn't I kneel more deeply to accept you, inconsolable sisters, and surrendering, lose myself in your loosened hair. How we squander our hours of pain. How we gaze beyond them into the bitter duration to see if they have an end. Though they are really our winter-enduring foliage, our dark evergreen, our season in our inner year--, not only a season in time--, but are place and settlement, foundation and soil and home.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
Marriage isn't just domesticity, or the continuance of the race, or institutionalized sex, or a form of property right. And it damned well isn't happiness, as that word is generally used. I think it's a way of finding your soul.
Robertson Davies (The Lyre of Orpheus (Cornish Trilogy, #3))
The days are passing so quickly. This is the only time of year when I want to slow time down. I spend the entire year trying to get here as fast as I can, then once I'm here I want to slam on the brakes. I'm beginning to have those moments when the feel of autumn is so strong it drowns out everything else. Lately it's been making me think about the perfect soundtrack for a Halloween party. The top of any Halloween music list as to be the theme song from the movie Halloween; right on its heels is "Pet Sematary" by the Ramones. For some reason I've always equated the old Van Morrison song "Moondance" with Halloween, too. I love that song. "Bela Lugosi's Dead" by Bauhaus is an October classic, as well as anything by Type O Negative. And Midnight Syndicate. If you've never heard anything by Midnight Syndicate, look them up right this moment. If you distilled the raw essence of every spooky story you ever heard, you would have Midnight Syndicate. I have a friend who swears by them, believing them to be a vital element of any Halloween party. To finish off the list you must have "The Lyre of Orpheus" by Nick Cave and "I Feel Alright" by Steve Earle.
Damien Echols (Life After Death)
Only he whose bright lyre has sounded in shadows may, looking onward, restore his infinite praise. Only he who has eaten poppies with the dead will not lose ever again the gentlest chord. Though the image upon the pool often grows dim: Know and be still. Inside the Double World all voices become eternally mild.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
The trees which you planted as a child Have long since grown too heavy; you do not deceive them. But the winds ... but the spaces ... Raise no monument. For it is the roses Which salute Him year by year with their petals. This, you see, is Orpheus
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
The only way Addie knew ho to keep going is to keep going forward. They are Orpheus, she is Eurydice, and every time they turn back, she is ruined.
V.E. Schwab (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue)
Collect yourself: to smother what you feel, recall to order, summon in one place; making, like Orpheus, a system against loss.
Ruth Padel (Darwin: A Life in Poems)
Orpheus said the mind is a slide ruler. It can fit around anything. Show me your body, he said. It only means one thing.
Sarah Ruhl (Eurydice)
These composers," Captain Nemo answered me, "are the contemporaries of Orpheus, because in the annals of the dead, all chronological differences fade; and
Jules Verne (Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea)
What is the deepest loss that you have suffered? If drinking is bitter, change yourself to wine. —from Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29 Rainer Maria Rilke
Kate Bernheimer (xo Orpheus: Fifty New Myths)
I understood the true fate of Orpheus, that love is a constant terror of loss.
Kazimierz Wierzyński
When I was in the Everneath, I thought about Jack every day. Every minute. Even after I'd forgotten his name, the image of his face made me feel whole again. Was Jack the reason I'd survived? Were our ties to the Surface what somehow kept us whole? The one problem in the anchor theory was Meredith.She had a connection with her mom,yet she didn't survive. But then the more I thought about it, the more I realized Mrs. Jenkins didn't have a similar connection to Meredith. She forgot about Meredith the second the Feed began. Then it hit me.Orpheus didn't forget about Eurydice.He loved her the entire time she was gone. Maybe the attachment between Forfeit and anchor worked only when it went both ways. The drinking fountain next to me shuddered to life as a flash of intuition hit me. I knew now that Jack never forgot about me.He'd never stopped loving me.He was the anchor that saved me. And now he was gone.
Brodi Ashton (Everneath (Everneath, #1))
All conscious nature has experiences of pleasure and pain. Man alone can deliberately will the repetition of an experience. And repetition, experienced as such, is at the heart, for good and evil, of his faculty of reasoning, and thus makes possible his language, his art, his morality, and indeed his humanity. Yet it is the enemy of life, for repetition is itself the principle, not of life but of mechanism.
Owen Barfield (Orpheus: A Poetic Drama)
Then there’re Theseus, Oedipus, Peleus, Orpheus, Jason and Hercules all waiting to be untangled, since their various deeds are running crisscross through my mind like multicolored threads in a dress. Myron
Anne Frank (The Diary of a Young Girl)
Mortimer!" Orpheus produced a derisive smile, although with some difficulty. "Is your head buried so deep in your wine jug that you don't know what's going on in this world of yours? He's not doing any reading now. The bookbinder prefers to play the outlaw these days - the role you created especially for him.
Cornelia Funke (Inkdeath (Inkworld, #3))
And the world must always seem to be either the Garden of Eden, from which he is about to be expelled, or a circle in hell, into which he has wandered like Dante or Orpheus only to find that he can’t get out.
Jane Rule (Desert of the Heart)
I cannot write myself. What, after all, is this "I" who would write himself? Even as he would enter into the writing, the writing would take the wind out of his sails, would render him null and void -- futile; a gradual dilapidation would occur, in which the other's image, too, would be gradually involved (to write on something is to outmode it), a disgust whose conclusion could only be: what's the use? what obstructs amorous writing is the illusion of expressivity: as a writer, or assuming myself to be one, I continue to fool myself as to the effects of language: I do not know that the word "suffering" expresses no suffering and that, consequently, to use it is not only to communicate nothing but even, and immediately, to annoy, to irritate (not to mention the absurdity). Someone would have to teach me that one cannot write without burying "sincerity" (always the Orpheus myth: not to turn back). What writing demands, and what any lover cannot grant it without laceration, is to sacrifice a little of his Image-repertoire, and to assure thereby, through his language, the assumption of a little reality. All I might produce, at best, is a writing of the Image-repertoire; and for that I would have to renounce the Image-repertoire of writing -- would have to let myself be subjugated by my language, submit to the injustices (the insults) it will not fail to inflict upon the double Image of the lover and of his other. The language of the Image-repertoire would be precisely the utopia of language: an entirely original, paradisiac language, the language of Adam -- "natural, free of distortion or illusion, limpid mirror of our sense, a sensual language (die sensualische Sprache)": "In the sensual language, all minds converse together, they need no other language, for this is the language of nature.
Roland Barthes (A Lover's Discourse: Fragments)
I hate parties. And a wedding is the biggest party of all. All the guests arrived and Orpheus is taking a shower. He's always taking a shower when the guests arrive so he doesn't have to greet them. Then I have to greet them.
Sarah Ruhl (Eurydice)
He was rowed down from the north in a leather skiff manned by a crew of trolls. His fur cape was caked with candle wax, his brow stained blue by wine - though the latter was seldom noticed due to the fox mask he wore at-all times. A quill in his teeth, a solitary teardrop a-squirm in his palm, he was the young poet prince of Montreal, handsome, immaculate, searching for sturdier doors to nail his poignant verses on. In Manhattan, grit drifted into his ink bottle. In Vienna, his spice box exploded. On the Greek island of Hydra, Orpheus came to him at dawn astride a transparent donkey and restrung his cheap guitar. From that moment on, he shamelessly and willingly exposed himself to the contagion of music. To the secretly religious curiosity of the traveler was added the openly foolhardy dignity of the troubadour. By the time he returned to America, songs were working in him like bees in an attic. Connoisseurs developed cravings for his nocturnal honey, despite the fact that hearts were occasionally stung. Now, thirty years later, as society staggers towards the millennium - nailing and screeching at the while, like an orangutan with a steak knife in its side - Leonard Cohen, his vision, his gift, his perseverance, are finally getting their due. It may be because he speaks to this wounded zeitgeist with particular eloquence and accuracy, it may be merely cultural time-lag, another example of the slow-to-catch-on many opening their ears belatedly to what the few have been hearing all along. In any case, the sparkle curtain has shredded, the boogie-woogie gate has rocked loose from its hinges, and here sits L. Cohen at an altar in the garden, solemnly enjoying new-found popularity and expanded respect. From the beginning, his musical peers have recognized Cohen´s ability to establish succinct analogies among life´s realities, his talent for creating intimate relationships between the interior world of longing and language and the exterior world of trains and violins. Even those performers who have neither "covered" his compositions nor been overtly influenced by them have professed to admire their artfulness: the darkly delicious melodies - aural bouquets of gardenia and thistle - that bring to mind an electrified, de-Germanized Kurt Weill; the playfully (and therefore dangerously) mournful lyrics that can peel the apple of love and the peach of lust with a knife that cuts all the way to the mystery, a layer Cole Porter just could`t expose. It is their desire to honor L. Cohen, songwriter, that has prompted a delegation of our brightest artists to climb, one by one, joss sticks smoldering, the steep and salty staircase in the Tower of Song.
Tom Robbins
To Selene (Moon) Hear, Goddess queen, diffusing silver light, bull-horn'd and wand'ring thro' the gloom of Night. With stars surrounded, and with circuit wide Night's torch extending, thro' the heav'ns you ride: Female and Male with borrow'd rays you shine, and now full-orb'd, now tending to decline. Mother of ages, fruit-producing Moon [Mene], whose amber orb makes Night's reflected noon: Lover of horses, splendid, queen of Night, all-seeing pow'r bedeck'd with starry light. Lover of vigilance, the foe of strife, in peace rejoicing, and a prudent life: Fair lamp of Night, its ornament and friend, who giv'st to Nature's works their destin'd end. Queen of the stars, all-wife Diana hail! Deck'd with a graceful robe and shining veil; Come, blessed Goddess, prudent, starry, bright, come moony-lamp with chaste and splendid light, Shine on these sacred rites with prosp'rous rays, and pleas'd accept thy suppliant's mystic praise.
Orpheus
Be forever dead in Eurydice, and climb back singing. Climb praising as you return to connection. Here among the disappearing, in the realm of the transient, be a ringing glass that shatters as it rings. Be. And know as well the need to not be: let that ground of all that changes bring you to completion now. To all that has run its course, and to the vast unsayable numbers of beings abounding in Nature, add yourself gladly, and cancel the cost. Sonnets to Orpheus II, 13
Anita Barrows (A Year with Rilke)
You, still the squanderers of the empty hall — when the twilight comes, wide as woods… And the chandelier, like a sixteen-pointer, vaults where nothing can set foot.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
Truly being here is glorious.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
She was like a reprieve; like Eurydice, gifted back to Orpheus from the darkness for a brief miraculous moment. I wanted, so intensely it took my breath away, to reach out and lay a hand on her soft dark head, to pull her tightly against me and feel her slight and warm and breathing, as if by protecting her hard enough I could somehow undo time and protect Katy, too.
Tana French (In the Woods (Dublin Murder Squad, #1))
I was in the Midwest, and the rain was all I had left of Camilla’s goodbye kiss. Raindrops on the windshield, radio stations fading in and out. Cornfields bleak in all those gray, wide-open reaches. I had said goodbye to her once before, but it took everything I had to say goodbye to her then, again, for the last time, like poor Orpheus turning for a last backward glance at the ghost of his only love and in the same heartbeat losing her forever: hinc illae lacrimae, hence those tears. I suppose nothing remains
Donna Tartt (The Secret History)
The one so loved that a single lyre raised more lament than lamenting women ever did; and that from the lament a world arose in which everything was there again: woods and valley and path and village, field and river and animal; and around this lament-world, just as around the other earth, a sun and a starry silent heaven turned, a lament-heaven of disordered stars -- : This one so loved.
Rainer Maria Rilke
I am the Dark One, – the Widower, – the Unconsoled The Aquitaine Prince whose Tower is destroyed: My only star is dead, - and my constellated lute Bears the Black Sun of Melancholia. In the night of the Tomb, You who comforted me, Give me back Mount Posillipo and the Italian sea, The flower that my afflicted heart liked so much And the trellised vineyard where the grapevine unites with the rose. Am I Amor or Phoebus ?… Lusignan or Biron ? My forehead is still red from the Queen’s kiss; I dreamt of the Cave where the mermaid swims… Twice victorious I crossed Acheron: Taking turn to play the Orpheus’ lyre The sighs of the Saint and the Fairy’s screams.
Gérard de Nerval (Les Chimères)
Sonnets to Orpheus, Part One, XII Bless the spirit that makes connections, for truly we live in what we imagine. Clocks move along side our real life with steps that are ever the same. Though we do not know our exact location, we are held in place by what links us. Across trackless distances antennas sense each other. Pure attention, the essence of the powers! Distracted by each day's doing, how can we hear the signals? Even as the farmer labors there where the seed turns into summer, it is not his work. It is Earth who gives.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Like the curved pipe of a fountain, your arching boughs drive the sap downward and up again: and almost without awakening it bursts out of sleep, into its sweetest achievement. Like the god stepping into the swan.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
But if the endlessly dead awakened a symbol in us, perhaps they would point to the catkins hanging from the bare branches of the hazel-trees, or would evoke the raindrops that fall onto the dark earth in springtime.-- And we, who have always thought of happiness as rising, would feel the emotion that almost overwhelms us whenever a happy thing falls.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
Praise the world to the angel, not what can’t be talked about. You can’t impress him with your grand emotions. In the grand cosmos where he so intensely feels, you’re just a novice. So show him some simple thing shaped for generation after generation until it lives in our hands and in our eyes, and it’s ours. Tell him about things. He’ll stand amazed, just as you did beside the ropemaker in Rome or the potter on the Nile. Show him how happy a thing can be, how innocent and ours; how even grief’s lament purely determines its own shape, serves as a thing, or dies in a thing — and escapes In ecstasy beyond the violin.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
Let us watch these mighty ones as they pass silently by. First, Orpheus, playing upon the seven stringed lyre of his own being, the music of the spheres. Then Hermes, the thrice greatest, with his emerald tablet of divine revelation. Through the shades of the past we dimly see Krishna, the illuminated, who on the battlefield of life taught man the mysteries of his own soul. Then we see the sublime Buddha, his yellow robe not half so glorious as the heart it covered, and our own dear Master, the man Jesus, his head surrounded with a halo of Golden Flame, and his brow serene with the calm of mastery. Then Mohammed, Zoroaster, Confucius, Odin, and Moses, and others no less worthy pass by before the eyes of the student They were the Sons of Flame. From the Flame they came, and to the Flame they have returned. To us they beckon, and bid us join them, and in our robes of self-earned glory to serve the Flame they love. They were without creed or clan; they served but the one great ideal. From the same place they all came, and to the same place they have returned. There was no superiority there. Hand in hand they labor for humanity. Each loves the other, for the power that has made them masters has shown them the Brotherhood of all life.
Manly P. Hall (The Initiates of the Flame (Fully Illustrated))
If we were in a restaurant sometimes Orpheus would look sullen and wouldn't talk to me and I thought people felt sorry for me. I should have realized that women envied me. Their husbands talked too much. But I wanted to talk to him about my notions. I was working on a new philosophical system. It involved hats.
Sarah Ruhl (Eurydice)
But I do look back. I do. Because she’s so beautiful and I’m so scared of going somewhere without her because my whole life, even before I knew it, I’ve always had Sarah. And when I look back at her, she disappears and I’m alone again.
Brynne Rebele-Henry (Orpheus Girl)
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels?" I know the answer: no one. Tell me: from where does love come? An angel is sitting on my face. To whom can I run? Take me in your arms, death, I'm so scared; do anything to me that will make me safe while I kick my heels and shout out in total fear, while we hurtle through your crags to where it's blacker: Orpheus' head eaten by rats, what's left of the world scatters, in the Lethe the poet's hairs, below where there's no ground, down into your hole, because you want me to eat your sperm. Death. I know. "Every angel is terrifying." Because of this, because I have met death, I must keep my death in me, gently, and yet go on living. Because of this, because I have met my death, I give myself birth. Remember that Persephone raped by Hades then by him brought into the Kingdom of Death there gave birth to Dionysius. You were the terrorized child, Mother, Now be no more. Requiat in pacem. Tell me: from where does love come? "Emerging at last from violent insight "Sing out in jubilation and in praise." to the angels who terrified away the night. Let not one string of my forever-child's heart and cunt fail to sing. Open up this body half in the realm of life, half in death and give breathe. For to breathe is always to pray. You language where language goes away. You were the terrorized child, Mother, Be no more. Requiat in pacem. Requiem. For it was you I loved.
Kathy Acker
I hate parties. And a wedding is the biggest party of all. All the guests arrived and Orpheus is taking a shower. He's always taking a shower when the guests arrive so he doesn't have to greet them. Then I have to greet them. A wedding is for daughters and fathers. The mothers all dress up, trying to look like young women. But a wedding is for a father and daughter. They stop being married to each other on that day. I always thought there would be more interesting people at my wedding.
Sarah Ruhl (Eurydice)
Jubilation knows and Longing grants — only Lament still learns; with girlish hands she counts the ancient evil through the nights. But suddenly, unpracticed and askant, she lifts one of our voice’s constellations Into the sky unclouded by her breath.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
I wanted death after that, but death don't come when you want it, it comes when you don't want it.
Tennessee Williams (Orpheus Descending)
Though he works and worries, the farmer never reaches down to where the seed turns into summer. The earth grants.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
It dawned on me that at least some of the art my family had lovingly collected might also serve as memorial candles.
Simon Goodman (The Orpheus Clock: The Search for My Family’s Art Treasures Stolen by the Nazis)
humans with their brief lives, these beautiful objects could reach across the generations, each with a story to tell if only one could unlock its secrets.
Simon Goodman (The Orpheus Clock: The Search for My Family’s Art Treasures Stolen by the Nazis)
Eurydice, forgive the Winds, forgive the Sun, forgive the Moon, forgive the Stars, forgive the Rain, for never loving you as I will.
Michan Bakhuis (Lament to Eurydice)
The crew rowed like demons as Orpheus played “Shake It Off” at double tempo to keep them motivated.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Heroes (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide))
Orpheus asks his mother. She tells him the obvious: the entrance to hell is always in your own house, silly billy.
Catherynne M. Valente (L'Esprit de L'Escalier)
ORPHEUS TAKES A SOLO HERCULES DOES TWELVE STUPID THINGS
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson and the Greek Heroes (Percy Jackson's Greek Myths))
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as warbled to the string, Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek, And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
John Milton (L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Comus, and Lycidas)
Orpheus I also play the lyre Eurydice Ooh, a liar, and a player too! I’ve met too many men like you
Anaïs Mitchell (Working on a Song: The Lyrics of HADESTOWN)
Descending into memory like Orpheus to bring Aura out alive for a moment, that's the desparate purpose of all these futile little rites and reenactments.
Fransisco Gold an
Don't look back, you asshole! he thought. Good advice, from Orpheus to Lot.
Karen Russell (Vampires in the Lemon Grove: Stories)
It was generally believed, said Theophilus, that Orpheus learned his music from the birds. His small voice, piping after theirs, filled with all the secret stories of the earth.
Ann Wroe (Orpheus: The Song of Life)
Orpheus never got the memo that loss is a ticket to resilience, not some sewer of revenge in which to wallow, marinating selfish, hellbent purpose for centuries on end.
Laurie Perez (The Power of Amie Martine)
Orpheus? She’s a girl. A girl who likes girls.
Brynne Rebele-Henry (Orpheus Girl)
Orpheus, with immaculately cut pleated trousers instead of a toga, was played by Jean Marais, Cocteau’s young lover. The leading actress, Maria Casares, was Albert Camus’s mistress.
Clive James (Cultural Amnesia: Necessary Memories from History and the Arts)
OCEANA: Are we here to take a tour of the museum? Is this your surprise? ORPHEUS: This is my house. OCEANA: (gasps) You gotta be kidding me. ORPHEUS: (now glaring at her) No I'm not.
Scarlett Brukett (Shimmers & Shrouds (Abstruse, #1))
What really shapes and conditions and makes us is somebody only a few of us ever have the courage to face: and that is the child you once were, long before formal education ever got its claws into you - that impatient, all-demanding child who wants love and power and can't get enough of either and who goes on raging and weeping in your spirit till at last your eyes are closed and all the fools say, 'Doesn't he look peaceful?' It is those pent-up, craving children who make all the wars and all the horrors and all the art and all the beauty and discovery in life, because they are trying to achieve what lay beyond their grasp before they were five years old.
Robertson Davies (The Cornish Trilogy: The Rebel Angels / What's Bred in the Bone / The Lyre of Orpheus)
What would you expect to find when the muzzle that has silenced the voices of black men is removed? That they would chant your praises? Did you think that when those heads that our fathers had forcibly bowed down to the ground were raised again, you would find adoration in their eyes?
Jean-Paul Sartre
Orpheus’ mistake wasn’t that he turned and looked back towards Eurydice and Hell, but that he ever thought he could escape. Same with Lot’s wife. Averting our eyes does not change the fact that we are marked.
Caitlín R. Kiernan (The Very Best of Caitlín R. Kiernan)
Only in the realm of Praising should Lament walk, the naiad of the wept-for fountain, watching over the stream of our complaint, to keep it clear upon the very stone that bears the arch of triumph and the altar.—
Rainer Maria Rilke (The Duino Elegies & The Sonnets to Orpheus: A Dual Language Edition (Vintage International))
While the Eternal Feminine in Faust II still appears in personalized form as the Madonna, she works her effects in The Magic Flute as an invisible spiritual power, as music. But this music is the expression of divine love itself, which unites law and freedom, above and below, in the wisdom of the heart and of love. As harmony, it grants humankind divine peace and rules the world as the highest divinity. From the earliest times, magic and music have stood under the rule of the Archetypal Feminine, which in myth and fairy tale is also the mistress of transformation, intoxication, and enchanting sound. Thus it is quite understandable that it is precisely this feminine principle that bestows the magical instruments. The Orpheus motif of the magical taming of the animal energies through music belongs to her, for as mistress of the animals the Great Goddess rules the world of wild as well as tame creatures. She can transform things and people into animal form, tame the animal, and enchant it because, like music, she is able to make the tame wild and the wild tame with the power of her magic.
Erich Neumann (The Fear of the Feminine and Other Essays on Feminine Psychology)
Orpheus in Hell" When he first brought his music into hell He was absurdly confident. Even over the noise of the shapeless fires And the jukebox groaning of the damned Some of them would hear him. In the upper world He had forced the stones to listen. It wasn’t quite the same. And the people he remembered Weren’t quite the same either. He began looking at faces Wondering if all of hell were without music. He tried an old song but pain Was screaming on the jukebox and the bright fire Was pelting away the faces and he heard a voice saying, “Orpheus!” He was at the entrance again And a little three-headed dog was barking at him. Later he would remember all those dead voices And call them Eurydice.
Jack Spicer (My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry)
Love stories abound in all cultures: Romeo and Juliet, Orpheus and Eurydice, Tristan and Isolde, and in the Middle East, we find the stories of Yusuf and Zuleika, and Majnûn and Laylá. The story of Majnûn and Layla- was (and still is) widely known throughout the Islamic world. However, in the hands of Persian Sûfî poets, the story became transformed into a symbol of the love of a human being for Allâh. In Sûfîsm, questing for Allâh is similar to the European Grail quest in which the Knight quests for a Chalice (the cup being a symbol of the female sexual organ). Laylá, in Arabic, comes from the word layl meaning 'night'. The association of the Divine Feminine with Darkness and the Night is ubiquitous.
Laurence Galian (Jesus, Muhammad and the Goddess)
The Greek’s told the story of Orpheus who descended into the underworld to rescue his bride Eurydice from Hades. The Nordic people had their hero-warrior Beowulf, and the Sumerians wrote of Inanna who battled her sister in the dark world.
Aletheia Luna (The Spiritual Awakening Process)
Hence the detail which interests me is not, or at least is not strictly intentional, and probably must not be so; it occurs in the field of the photographed thing like a supplement that is at once inevitable and delightful; it does not necessarily attest to the photographer's art; it says only that the photographer was there, or else, still more simply, that he could not (i)not(i) photograph the partial object at the same time as the total object (how could Kerész have 'separated' the dirt road from the violinist walking on it?). The Photographer's 'second sight' does not consist in 'seeing' but in being there. And above all, imitating Orpheus, he must not turn back to look at what he is leading — what hi is giving to me!
Roland Barthes (Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography)
GRANDMA: Are you a gay? ORPHEUS: I am straight. I'm definitely dating a girl, gran. Do you think she's a man? *She laughs* ORPHEUS' BRAIN: Thank god she took it as a joke. I would have been executed on the town square for such a rude back answer.
Scarlett Brukett (Shimmers & Shrouds (Abstruse, #1))
Orpheus chose to be the leader of mankind. Ah, not even Orpheus had attained such a goal, not even his immortal greatness had justified such vain and presumptuous dreams of grandeur, such flagrant overestimation of poetry! Certainly many instances of earthly beauty--a song, the twilit sea, the tone of the lyre, the voice of a boy, a verse, a statue, a column, a garden, a single flower--all possess the divine faculty of making man hearken unto the innermost and outermost boundaries of his existence, and therefore it is not to be wondered at that the lofty art of Orpheus was esteemed to have the power of diverting the streams from their beds and changing their courses, of luring the wild beasts of the forest with tender dominance, of arresting the cattle a-browse upon the meadows and moving them to listen, caught in the dream and enchanted, the dreamwish of all art: the world compelled to listen, ready to receive the song and its salvation. However, even had Orpheus achieved his aim, the help lasts no longer than the song, nor does the listening, and on no account might the song resound too long, otherwise the streams would return to their old courses, the wild beasts of the forest would again fall upon and slay the innocent beasts of the field, and man would revert again to his old, habitual cruelty; for not only did no intoxication last long, and this was likewise true of beauty's spell, but furthermore, the mildness to which men and beasts had yielded was only half of the intoxication of beauty, while the other half, not less strong and for the most part far stronger, was of such surpassing and terrible cruelty--the most cruel of men delights himself with a flower--that beauty, and before all the beauty born of art, failed quickly of its effect if in disregard of the reciprocal balance of its two components it approached man with but one of them.
Hermann Broch (The Death of Virgil)
Time slipped and slid around him, unanchored by any fact that could be verified. Perhaps it did not matter. 'Where does our story take place, and when?' asked Cocteau at the start of Orphée. 'It's the privilege of legends to be ageless. Comme il vous plaira. As you please.
Ann Wroe (Orpheus: The Song of Life)
Love is the unfathomable ground that is hidden in darkness, but the resolution is the triumphant victor who, like Orpheus, fetches the infatuation of falling in love to the light of day, for the resolution is the true form of love, the true explanation and transfiguration.
Søren Kierkegaard (Either/Or, Part I)
I have stood in the midnight rain under dizzying lights by the street corners stark of any occurrence, obscured by the darkness. I have composed stupid ballads. I have slept through my days. I have waited motionless in my room. I have wept. And I made no sound. –Exit Orpheus
Matthew Hong
Time is distance, and when it is suspended, we are no longer in the world but a part of the world. That is what the music of Orpheus did to the women who in a kind of collective trance or ecstasy tore his head off and tossed it into the sea, where it drifted slowly away, still singing.
Karl Ove Knausgård (Om høsten (Årstidsencyklopedien, #1))
I had to say goodbye to her once before, but it took everything I had to say goodbye to her then, again, for the last time, like poor Orpheus turning for a last backwards glance at the ghost of his only love and in the same heartbeat losing her forever: hinc illae lacrimae, hence those tears.
Donna Tartt (The Secret History)
We’re involved with flower, fruit, grapevine. They speak more than the language of the year. Out of the darkness a blaze of colors appears, and one perhaps that has the jealous shine Of the dead, those who strengthen the earth. What do we know of the part they assume? It’s long been their habit to marrow the loam with their own free marrow through and through. Now the one question: Is it done gladly? The work of sullen slaves, does this fruit thrust up, clenched, toward us, its masters? Sleeping with roots, granting us only out of their surplus this hybrid made of mute strength and kisses — are they the masters?
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
It is all about praising. Created to praise, his heart is a winepress destined to break, that makes for us an eternal wine. His voice never chokes with dust when words for the sacred come through. All becomes vineyard. All becomes grape, ripening in the southland of his being. Nothing, not even the rot in royal tombs, or the shadow cast by a god, gives the lie to his praising. He is ever the messenger, venturing far through the doors of the dead, bearing a bowl of fresh-picked fruit.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Who's Mrs. Gummidge?' 'If you're a good girl and get well soon I'll lend you the book.' 'Oh, somebody in a book! All you people like Nilla and the Cornishes and that man Darcourt seem to live out of books. As if everything was in books!' 'Well, Schnak, just about everything is in books. No, that's wrong. We recognize in books what we've met in life. But if you'd read a few books you wouldn't have to meet everything as if it had never happened before, and take every blow right on the chin. You'd see a few things coming...
Robertson Davies (The Lyre of Orpheus (Cornish Trilogy, #3))
I know the solution to all my problems..but I don't have enough courage and discipline to face it.
Orpheus Aku
But I think people always die alone... with or without relations.
Tennessee Williams (Orpheus Descending)
To be not alone, even for a few moments, is worth the pain and the danger.
Tennessee Williams (Orpheus Descending)
Suffering is not discerned, neither has love been learned, and what removes us in death, nothing unveils. Only the song's high breath hallows and hails.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Few things are stranger than watching a giant hippo fly.
Orpheus Collar (The Serpent's Shadow: The Graphic Novel (The Kane Chronicles, #3))
Poor woman, I suppose she led a dog’s life, and it made her disagreeable, which she mistook for being strong.
Robertson Davies (The Cornish Trilogy: The Rebel Angels, What's Bred in the Bone, The Lyre of Orpheus)
All that we have gained, the machine threatens- once a tool assumes a force of its own. Instead of letting us get used to mastery, for buildings more severe it cuts the stone.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
To Hera O Royal Hera of majestic mien, aerial-form'd, divine, Zeus' blessed queen, Thron'd in the bosom of cærulean air, the race of mortals is thy constant care. The cooling gales thy pow'r alone inspires, which nourish life, which ev'ry life desires. Mother of clouds and winds, from thee alone producing all things, mortal life is known: All natures share thy temp'rament divine, and universal sway alone is thine. With founding blasts of wind, the swelling sea and rolling rivers roar, when shook by thee. Come, blessed Goddess, fam'd almighty queen, with aspect kind, rejoicing and serene.
Orpheus
Do you get it now,Becks?" Jack wrapped a finger around a long strand of my hair, and we were quiet as it slipped through his grip. "You haven't moved on?" He chuckled. "I have a lifetime of memories made up of chestnut wars and poker games and midnight excursions and Christmas Dances...It's all you. It's only ever been you.I love you." The last part seemed to escape his lips unintentionally, and afterward he closed his eyes and put his head in his hands,as if he had a sudden headache. "I've gotta not say that out loud." The sight of how messed up he was made me want to wrap my arms around him and fold him into me and cushion him from everything that lay ahead. Instead,I reached for his hand. Brought it to my lips. Kissed it. He raised his head and winced. "You shouldn't do that," he said, even though he didn't pull his hand away. "Why?" "Because...it'll make everything worse...If you don't feel-" His voice cut off as I kissed his hand again, pausing with his fingers at my lips. He let out a shaky sigh and his hair flopped forward. Then he looked at my lips for a long moment. "What if...?" I bit my lower lip. "What?" "What if we could be like this again?" He leaned in closer with a smile, and as he did,he said, "Are you going to steal my soul?" "Um...it's not technically your soul that..." I couldn't finish my sentence. His lips brushed mine, and I felt the whoosh of transferring emotions,but it wasn't as strong as the last time. The space inside me was practically full again. The Shades were right. Six months was just long enough to recover. He kept his lips touching mine when he asked, "Is it okay?" Okay in that I wasn't going to suck him dry anymore. Not okay in that my own emotions were in hyperdrive. Only our lips touched.Thankfully there was space between us everywhere else. He took my silence to mean it was safe. We held our lips together, tentative and still. But he didn't let it stay that casual for long.He pressed his lips closer, parting his mouth against mine. I shivered,and he put his arms around me and pulled me closer so that our bodies were touching in so many places. He pulled back a little.His breath was on my lips. "What is it?" I asked. "I dreamed of you every night." He briefly touched his lips to mine again. "It felt so real.And when I'd wake up the next morning,it was like your disappearance was fresh. Like you'd left me all over again." I lowered my chin and tucked my head into his chest. "I'm sorry." He sighed and tightened his grip around me. "It never got easier.But the dreams themselves." I felt him shake his head. "It's like I had a physical connection to you. They were so real. Every night,you were in my room with me. It was so real." I tilted my head back so I could face him again, realizing for the first time how difficult it must've been for Jack. I kissed his chin, his cheek, and then his lips. "I'm sorry," I said again. He shook his head. "It's not your fault I dreamed of you, Becks.I just want to know if it was as real as it felt." "I don't know," I said. But I told him about the book I'd read on Orpheus and Eurydice, and my theory that it was her connection to Orpheus that saved her.
Brodi Ashton (Everneath (Everneath, #1))
From the literary point of view, the Koran has little merit. Declamation, repetition, puerility, a lack of logic and coherence strike the unprepared reader at every turn. It is humiliating to the human intellect to think that this mediocre literature has been the subject of innumerable commentaries, and that millions of men are still wasting time in absorbing it." (Orpheus, Salmon Reinach, 1932. See page 175 of the book here)
Salomon Reinach (Orpheus: A History of Religions)
he pulled me up into the world of advanced literature, where you wrote essays about a line of Dante, where nothing could be made complex enough, where art dealt with the supreme, not in a high-flown sense because it was the modernist canon with which we were engaged, but in the sense of the ungraspable, which was best illustrated by Blanchot’s description of Orpheus’s gaze, the night of the night, the negation of the negation, which of course was in some way above the trivial and in many ways wretched lives we lived, but what I learned was that also our ludicrously inconsequential lives, in which we could not attain anything of what we wanted, nothing, in which everything was beyond our abilities and power, had a part in this world, and thus also in the supreme, for books existed, you only had to read them, no one but myself could exclude me from them. You just had to reach up.
Karl Ove Knausgård (My Struggle: Book 1)
But, to return to my design, what power was it that drew those stony, oaken, and wild people into cities but flattery? For nothing else is signified by Amphion and Orpheus' harp. What was it that, when the common people of Rome were like to have destroyed all by their mutiny, reduced them to obedience? Was it a philosophical oration? Least. But a ridiculous and childish fable of the belly and the rest of the members. And as good success had Themistocles in his of the fox and hedgehog. What wise man's oration could ever have done so much with the people as Sertorius' invention of his white hind? Or his ridiculous emblem of pulling off a horse's tail hair by hair? Or as Lycurgus his example of his two whelps? To say nothing of Minos and Numa, both which ruled their foolish multitudes with fabulous inventions; with which kind of toys that great and powerful beast, the people, are led anyway.
Erasmus (Praise of Folly)
In this vast night, be the magic power at your senses’ intersection, the meaning of their strange encounter. And if the earthly has forgotten you, say to the still earth: I flow. To the rushing water speak: I am. from “Sonnet 29
Rainer Maria Rilke (The Sonnets to Orpheus)
The word “religion” has been hi-jacked and debased by the priests of faiths like these, until now it has become a dirty word amongst intelligent, right-thinking people in the Western world. The word “religion” springs from roots meaning piety, the Latin religio, the opposite idea to negligens, negligent, uncaring, unaware. It also springs from a root meaning to join together things that are separate, which in fact is the same meaning as the word “yoga” (compare the English word yoke, which ties oxen together, for example). So religion is a word which describes the process of becoming aware and unified, of joining together all things which are diverse; it is the union of body and spirit, self and not-self, human and god.
Rodney Orpheus
And while I’m reading, the new words I’m taking in will connect to others already taken in. That reference to blue is the third this chapter, and it always goes with wealth. That phrase is from the poem earlier. Deeper. That’s a reference to the myth of Orpheus. That’s a pairing of two words that don’t usually go together. Wider. That’s a symbol Dickens employs often. That typifies Said’s writings on Orientalism. Points of light. They make a map, or a pattern, or a constellation. Formless, intricate, infinitely complex, and lovely. And then, at once, they’ll connect. They’ll meet, and explode. Of course. That’s the entire point. That’s how the story works, the way each sentence and metaphor and reference feeds into the other to illuminate something important. That explosion of discovery, of understanding, is the most intoxicating moment there is. Emotional, intellectual, aesthetic. Just for a moment, a perfect moment, a small piece of the world makes perfect sense.
H.G. Parry (The Unlikely Escape of Uriah Heep)
Dozens of paintings could fit those general descriptions. Instead, claimants had to describe their stolen painting in detail, including if possible the canvas measurements—an important identifying point in paintings—and provide documentation of prior ownership.
Simon Goodman (The Orpheus Clock: The Search for My Family’s Art Treasures Stolen by the Nazis)
Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that death is a good; for one of two things—either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now if death be of such a nature, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead abide, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true, let me die again and again.
Socrates (Apology, Crito and Phaedo of Socrates.)
Caeiro’s work is truly a manifestation of a pagan mind. The order and discipline of paganism which Christianity caused us to lose, the reasoned intelligence of things, which was paganism’s most obvious attribute and no longer ours — permeate his work. Because it speaks here its form, we see the essence, not the exterior shape, of paganism. In other words, I do not see Caeiro reconstructing the exterior form of paganism. Paganism’s very substance has in fact been summoned up from Avernus, as Orpheus summoned Eurydice, by the harmelodic magic of Caeiro’s emotion.
Ricardo Reis
Want the change. Be inspired by the flame where everything shines as it disappears. The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much as the curve of the body as it turns away. What locks itself in sameness has congealed. Is it safer to be gray and numb? What turns hard becomes rigid and is easily shattered. Pour yourself out like a fountain. Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins. Every happiness is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel, dares you to become the wind. Sonnets to Orpheus II, 12
Anita Barrows (A Year with Rilke)
من وجهة نظر أدبية بحتة، القرآن لا يمتلك أيّة ميّزات أو مزايا. كلام خطابي، تكرار، عبارات طفولية، افتقار تام للمنطق والتناسق يصدم القارئ عند كل منعطف فيه. من الغريب والمهين جداً للذكاء والفطنة البشرية الاعتقاد أنّ هذا النوع من الأدب العادي كان موضوع تفسيرات وأبحاث وتأويلات لا تحصى، وأنّ ملايين البشر ما زالوا يهدرون وقتهم بالاستغراق فيه
Salomon Reinach (Orpheus: A History of Religions)
We are the driven ones. But the march of time Is but a trifle In our perpetual enduring. All this hastening Will soon be done; For only lingering Can consecrate our being. Young men, don’t throw Your energies into tests of Speed or aerial flight. Know that all is in repose: The darkness, the brilliantly luminous, The flower, the book
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
The Mysteries at Aegina were popular and continued to be sought out by citizens during the late Roman Era. In one example, Paulina, the wife of Praetextatus, wrote of her husband after his death that he was a pious initiate who internalised that which he found at the sacred rites, who learned many things and adored the Divine. Paulina’s husband had introduced her to ‘all the mysteries’ and in doing so ‘exempted her from death’s destiny’. Named specifically are the Mysteries of Eleusis, Kybele, Mithras and that of Hekate at Aegina, where Paulina was a Hierophant. “… her husband taught to her, the servant of Hecate, her “triple secrets” – whatever these secrets were, the Mysteries provided less “extraordinary experience” than soteriological hope and theological and philosophical knowledge.”[176] It is possible to assume that the beliefs and customs at Aegina had something in common with those at other temples associated with the annual Mysteries said to be established by Orpheus, like those of Eleusis. The Mysteries of Aegina were renowned, as this early Christian writer indicates, and it is possible to conclude that they had an element of oathbound secrecy as we know so little about them today. “For the mysteries of Mithras do not appear to be more famous among the Greeks than those of Eleusis, or than those in Aegina, where individuals are initiated in the rites of Hecate.”[177]
Sorita d'Este (Circle for Hekate -Volume I, History & Mythology: Dedicated to the light-bearing Goddess of the crossroads in all her many faces, manifestations, and names. (The Circle for Hekate Project Book 1))
Temples are no longer known. It is we who secretly save up these extravagances of the heart. Where one of them still survives, a Thing that was formerly prayed to, worshipped, knelt before-- just as it is, it passes into the invisible world. Many no longer perceive it, yet miss the chance to build it inside themselves now, with pillars and statues: greater.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
Things were about to get ugly when a waterspout erupted off the port bow. Atop the column of spume sat an old man with fins instead of arms, and a fish tail instead of legs. “It’s Poseidon!” yelled Zetes. “It’s Oceanus!” said Atalanta. “It’s that guy from The Little Mermaid!” said Orpheus. The merman sighed and flapped his arm-fins. “Actually, I’m Glaucus. But don’t worry. No one ever gets that right.” The Argonauts muttered among themselves, trying to figure out who Glaucus was. “Oh my gods!” the ship’s prow said. “You people are embarrassing me! Glaucus was a fisherman who ate some magic herbs and became immortal. Now he’s like the Delphic Oracle of the sea!” “Ohhhh.” The crew all nodded like they knew what the prow was talking about.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Heroes (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide))
Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground. So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard - Ye Gods - a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door. Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize. Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears. Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc. In fact girls, I’d rather be dead. But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal. Orpheus strutted his stuff. The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears. Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life - Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife - to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths… He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever. So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked. Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this - I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey. It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke - Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again… He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me. What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone. The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.
Carol Ann Duffy (The World's Wife)
I have bragged a lot about you here, don't let me down. Okay." I exhaled and looked at her with expectant eyes. "Okay." she came closer than required. I could almost feel her body right next to mine."Watch out. I am going to be your worst nightmare." She smiled crookedly. Freak!! there goes my heartbeat again. I struggled to fight back the wave of emotions that crowded up my heart. The moon was up in the sky, we were standing and talking where my father had proposed my mom. The breeze was light, gently swaying her hair. She was bathing in the streaming moonlight. Her gaze was on me, intense and unavoidable. I prayed not to do anything stupid, like kissing her. "Ocea-" "Orpheus, I am kidding." She cut in. Thank god she stepped away. I realized I let my breath ease away. "This is a beautiful lawn!" She exclaimed. "What do you play here? Baseball?
Scarlett Brukett (Shimmers & Shrouds (Abstruse, #1))
The laws of physics, which govern the behaviour of atoms and the movements of the stars, govern also the conduct of rational beings. And yet: Being is still enchanted for us; in a hundred Places it remains a source - a play of pure Powers, which touches no one, who does not kneel and wonder. Words still go softly forth towards the unsayable. And music, always new, from palpitating stones Builds in useless space its godly home. [Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, n] This enchantment — revealed to us in the constant intimation of sacred things — belongs, not to the world of physical science, but to the Lebenswelt, which we ourselves construct through our collusive actions. The 'scientific realist' sees only a disenchanted world; and what he sees is real. But within reality we also make our home, and in doing so we provide the meaning that is lacking from the world of science.
Roger Scruton (Sexual Desire: A Philosophical Investigation)
The techno-political thriller and the romance novel serve as antidotes to the imagination rather than stimulants to it. For this reason they make for ideal reading in airports and airplanes. They effectively shut down the imagination by doing all its work for it. They leave the spirit or the soul—and ambiguity, for that matter—out of the equation. By shutting down the imagination, genre novels perform a useful service to the anxious air traveler by reducing his or her ability to speculate. For the most part, people on airplanes, and here I include myself, would rather not use their speculative imaginations at all; one consequence of this situation is that great poetry is virtually unreadable during turbulence, when the snack cart has been put away and the seat belts fastened. Enough anxiety is associated with air travel without Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus making it worse.
Charles Baxter (The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot)
The country is proud of its dead poets. It takes terrific satisfaction in the poets’ testimony that the USA is too tough, too big, too much, too rugged, that American reality is overpowering. And to be a poet is a school thing, a skirt thing, a church thing. The weakness of the spiritual powers is proved in the childishness, madness, drunkenness, and despair of these martyrs. Orpheus moved stones and trees. But a poet can’t perform a hysterectomy or send a vehicle out of the solar system. Miracle and power no longer belong to him. So poets are loved, but loved because they just can’t make it here. They exist to light up the enormity of the awful tangle and justify the cynicism of those who say, ‘If I were not such a corrupt, unfeeling bastard, creep, thief, and vulture, I couldn’t get through this either. Look at these good and tender and soft men, the best of us. They succumbed, poor loonies.
Saul Bellow (Humboldt's Gift)
One of the Maenads Speaks to the Singing Head of Orpheus as It Floats Downriver” How can I explain what we have done to you? We heard in your voice the mad longing to be broken from the body’s reins, to return to your beloved and put your lips to the bite marks on her ankle. For too long you held to the blue-dark loss that laid beside you. Didn’t you know we were always meant to lose everything? Don’t mourn. After love, there is more love. I have seen it. One sigh held by another, held by another. I kept your head in my lap while the others took your body from you, their teeth on your collar bones, fingernails plucking chords from your throat. Death and madness can be the same kind of deliverance. Flies are laying eggs in the wreckage of your neck, but you keep singing. The rain lilies you pass gather your melodies, so I uproot them. Nightingales open their beaks to swallow your notes, and I stone them. Love is a song you sing in search of deeper water. The body, you leave behind. The music travels with you.
Traci Brimhall
Martin was more than happy to let Spencer take over the conversation, for it finally granted him an opportunity to observe Mrs. Wheaton- who had just achieved the impossible. She had made him laugh. Truly, she was one of a kind. She always had been, he supposed, recalling again that day at the train station. While the polite conversation continued all around him, he allowed his gaze to meander downward and was pleased to admire the alluring feminine curves "Miss Foster" had developed over the past decade, including a lush, generous bosom, which would fare quite nicely in a lighter gown with a lower neckline, he thought. Dressed as she was at present, she reminded him of a pleasure yacht with her sails trimmed too tight, rendering her incapable of moving freely at the speed she was built for. He wondered suddenly how this aloof young widow would respond to a little wind in her sails and a skillful skipper like himself at her helm. Would he be able to bring the best out of her, like he did with the Orpheus? Yes, he thought with absolute confidence while he admired the grace of her gloved hand as she touched one finger to the corner of her mouth to dab at an errant drop of tea. He certainly could bring the best out of her, and also bring out that spark she kept hidden from the world. A marvelous, masculine satisfaction flowed through him at the thought of it.
Julianne MacLean (Surrender to a Scoundrel (American Heiresses, #6))
Ode to the Beloved’s Hips" Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered percussion in the morning—are the morning. Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me— I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna. How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur. My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena, ecstatic devourer. O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped the amber—fast honey—from their openness— Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet- dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond— to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue— come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips, I am—strummed-song and succubus. They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book— the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel. Alleluias, Ave Marías, madre mías, ay yay yays, Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray. Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera. Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle: What do I see? Hips: Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone. Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread, wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be: Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel. Bone basin bone throne bone lamp. Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery— slick rosary bead—Déme la gracia of a decade in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit, laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God, I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth for pear upon apple upon fig. More than all that are your hips. They are a city. They are Kingdom— Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire— thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth. Beloved, your hips are the war. At night your legs, love, are boulevards leading me beggared and hungry to your candy house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late and the tables have been cleared, in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake. O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve, a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon, let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming for your dark matter. Along las calles de tus muslos I wander— follow the parade of pulse like a drum line— descend into your Plaza del Toros— hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros. Your arched hips—ay, mi torera. Down the long corridor, your wet walls lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed. I am the animal born to rush your rich red muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan, a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner thigh—here I must enter you—mi pobre Manolete—press and part you like a wound— make the crowd pounding in the grandstand of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.
Natalie Díaz
Why should Milton, Shakespeare, and Lord Bacon, and Sir Philip Sidney die? Perhaps yet they shall not wholly die. I am not contented to visit the house in Bread-Street where Milton was born, or that in Bunhill-Row where he died, I want to repair to the place where he now dwells. Some spirit shall escape from his ashes, and whisper to me things unfelt before. I am not satisfied to converse only with the generation of men that now happens to subsist; I wish to live in intercourse with the Illustrious Dead of All Ages. I demand the friendship of Zoroaster. Orpheus, and Linus, and Musaeus shall be welcome to me. I have a craving and an earnest heart, that can never be contented with anything in this sort, while something more remains to be obtained. And I feel that thus much at least the human race owes to its benefactors, that they should never be passed by without an affectionate remembrance. I would say, with Ezekiel, the Hebrew, in his Vision, ‘Let these dry bones live!’ Not let them live merely in cold generalities and idle homilies of morality; but let them live, as my friends, my philosophers, my instructors, and my guides! I would say with the moralist of old, ‘Let me act, as I would wish to have acted, if Socrates or Cato were the spectators of what I did!’ And I am not satisfied only to call them up by a strong effort of the imagination, but I would have them, and men like them, ‘around my path, and around my bed,’ and not allow myself to hold a more frequent intercourse with the living, than with the good departed.
William Godwin (Essay on sepulchres: or, A proposal for erecting some memorial of the illustrious dead in all ages on the spot where their remains have been interred.)
E tu troverai alla sinistra delle case di Ade una fonte, e accanto a essa un bianco cipresso diritto: a questa fonte non accostarti neppure, da presso. E ne troverai un'altra, fredda acqua che scorre dalla palude di Mnemosine: e davanti stanno i custodi. Di' loro: Sono figlio di Terra e di Cielo stellante, inoltre la mia stirpe è Celeste; e questo sapete anche voi. Sono riarsa di sete e muoio: ma date, subito, fredda acqua che scorre dalla palude di Mnemosine. Ed essi ti lasceranno bere dalla fonte divina, e in seguito tu regnerai assieme agli altri eroi. Di Mnemosine, questo è il sepolcro..." Laminetta trovata a Petelia Oblio e memoria sono i due strumenti del dissetamento. Se si beve dalla corrente dell'oblio si dimentica tutto e si rinasce a una nuova vita, cioè la sete è soltanto ingannata, e l'arsura non tarda a ripresentarsi in una nuova individuazione. Ma se si beve dalla fonte di Mnemosine, come testimoniano queste laminette, la memoria fa recuperare la conoscenza del passato e dell'immutabile, l'uomo riconosce la sua origine divina e si identifica in Dioniso, e l'arsura non viene spenta, ma dissetata, da una gelida, divina, prorompente conoscenza.
Giorgio Colli (La sapienza greca, I. Dioniso, Apollo, Eleusi, Orfeo, Museo, Iperborei, Enigma)
As for myself, what has died for me has died, so to speak, into my own heart: when I looked for him, the person who vanished has collected himself strangely and so surprisingly in me, and it was so moving to feel he was now only there that my enthusiasm for serving his new existence, for deepening and glorifying it, took the upper hand almost at the very moment when pain would otherwise have invaded and devastated the whole landscape of my spirit. When I remember how I—often with the utmost difficulty in understanding and accepting each other—loved my father! Often, in childhood, my mind became confused and my heart grew numb at the mere thought that someday he might no longer be; my existence seemed to me so wholly conditioned through him (my existence, which from the start was pointed in such a different direction!) that his departure was to my innermost self synonymous with my own destruction …, but so deeply is death rooted in the essence of love that (if only we are cognizant of death without letting ourselves be misled by the uglinesses and suspicions that have been attached to it) it nowhere contradicts love: where, after all, can it drive out someone whom we have carried unsayably in our heart except into this very heart, where would the “idea” of this loved being exist, and his unceasing influence (: for how could that cease which even while he lived with us was more and more independent of his tangible presence) … where would this always secret influence be more secure than in us?! Where can we come closer to it, where more purely celebrate it, when obey it better, than when it appears combined with our own voices, as if our heart had learned a new language, a new song, a new strength! (To Countess Margot Sizzo-Noris-Crouy, January 6, 1923)
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
Orpheus chuckled brightly. “You are strange, my little doe.
Opal Reyne (A Soul to Keep (Duskwalker Brides, #1))
Orpheus backwards turned his sight And looking lost her twice to fate. For you the legend I relate, You who seek the upward way To lift your mind into the day; For who gives in and turns his eye Back to darkness from the sky, Loses while he looks below All that up with him may go.
Boethius (The Consolation of Philosophy)
if we take a moment and look at animals' kingdoms we will find that everything moves in order but only humans tend to be different.
Orpheus Aku
I have been in many arguments and silence was never a wrong choice
Orpheus Aku
Had I the tongue of Orpheus and his mellifluous strains and by song could cast a spell on Persephone and her spouse to wrest you out of hell, I should go down and neither Pluto’s hound nor the spirit-ferrying Charon at his oar could stop me: not till I’d brought your soul up into the light. Wait for me down there. Wait for me to die. Prepare the home where you and I shall live as one. For I shall make them lay my bones side by side with yours: stretched out with you in the selfsame cedar box.
Euripides (Ten Plays)
But soon he stopped short: a giant, three-headed dog was blocking his path, growling and gnashing its huge white teeth, long and sharp as a warrior’s dagger. This was Cerberus, the guardian of the gates of Hades, offspring of the Titans Echidna and Typhon. But Orpheus did not fear the great dog: again, he took up his lyre and he sang, this time a soothing lullaby, and soon the great beast’s eyes began to close, and it swayed, and then fell to the floor, fast asleep.
Captivating History (Mythology: Captivating Greek, Egyptian, Norse, Celtic and Roman Myths of Gods, Goddesses, Heroes, and Monsters)
Whenever you have a goal in mind and each wind blow stops you, you only build more nails in your path.
Orpheus Aku
always the beginning is what tough the rest is just timing counting progress
Orpheus Aku
I was listening to sad music in quiet and that was pure happiness to me I was talking and sharing thoughts and that was pure sadness to me Live a life you enjoy not a life you want to
Orpheus Aku
worldly even if everyone got what they wanted, there's no good in it at the end will demise, but strive and work for the hereafter, it's your chance in front of the land of justice, I have not seen tyranny, where's the sword where's the hat?
Orpheus Aku
The future is today, the past is today's outcome
Orpheus Aku
introverted but extroverted, calm but intense, open-minded but close-minded, happy but depressed
Orpheus Aku
Eve with her apple, biting in. Eurydice, smiling when the snake bit her ankle, then again, when he fatally tripped on his desire to keep her small and by his side. Things done wrong for the right reasons. No one is in charge of us, but us.
Laurie Perez (The Power of Amie Martine (The Amie Series, #2))
Our ability to embrace science is hindered entirely by men who would deny the possibility of impossible things.
Heather Parry (Orpheus Builds a Girl)
Pues cerca de la muerte uno ya no ve la muerte y mira fijamente hacia afuera, quizás con una gran mirada de animal.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus)
P. 51, l. 915. The speech of the Muse seems like the writing of a poet who is, for the moment, tired of mere drama, and wishes to get back into his own element. Such passages are characteristic of Euripides.—The death of Rhesus seems to the Muse like an act of vengeance from the dead Thamyris, the Thracian bard who had blasphemed the Muses and challenged them to a contest of song. They conquered him and left him blind, but still a poet. The story in Homer is more terrible, though more civilised: "They in wrath made him a maimed man, they took away his heavenly song and made him forget his harping." Thamyris, the bard who defied Heaven; Orpheus, the bard, saint, lover, whose severed head still cried for his lost Eurydice; Musaeus, the bard of mystic wisdom and initiations—are the three great legendary figures of this Northern mountain minstrelsy.
Euripides (Rhesos (Greek Tragedy in New Translations))
All my life I’ve made friends and lost lovers and talked about these two activities as though they were very different, opposed; but in truth love is the direct and therefore hopeless method of calling Orpheus back, whereas friendship is the equally hopeless because irrelevant attempt to find warmth in other shades. Odd that in the story Orpheus is lonely, too.
Edmund White (A Boy's Own Story (The Edmund Trilogy, #1))
Movies That Grew Me Spirit of the Beehive—Victor Erice Walkabout—Nicolas Roeg Orfeu Negro (Black Orpheus)—Marcel Camus Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory—Mel Stuart Ratcatcher—Lynne Ramsay Throne of Blood—Akira Kurosawa It’s a Wonderful Life—Frank Capra Drugstore Cowboy—Gus Van Sant The Deer Hunter—Michael Cimino The Wizard of Oz—Victor Fleming To Live—Zhang Yimou Persepolis—Marjane Satrapi
Flea (Acid for the Children: A Memoir)
A Christian variation of the Greek hero myth infers that Jesus, like the celebrated figures of Dionysus, Orpheus, Heracles (Hercules), and Aeneas, descended (presumably after the Crucifixion) into these “dark pits,” where he “made his proclamation to the imprisoned spirits” (1 Pet. 3: 19; cf. 1 Pet. 4: 6). After having experienced both earthly life and a postmortem descent to the Underworld, Jesus then ascends to the uppermost realm of the three-tier cosmos.
Stephen L. Harris (The New Testament: A Student's Introduction)
Thanks to Hitler, we are no longer living in a world that cares about the death of someone because they were loved in the past. It cares only if that death can do damage to the future. It’s a grim truth, Sidney. Like Orpheus leaving Hades, we are rushing headlong into the light of a terrible new world.
Christopher Fowler (Full Dark House (Bryant & May, #1))
On the other hand, I understand how Orpheus felt. I’ve come close to losing my girlfriend more times than I want to think about. If she died, I’d do everything I could to bring her back. I’d grab my sword, march into Hades’s palace, and…And I’d probably act just as recklessly as Orpheus did, only I wouldn’t be singing. I don’t sing.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Heroes (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide))
power is the by-product of understanding. So the Greeks said that Orpheus played the lyre with such sympathy that wild beasts were tamed by the hand on the strings. They did not suggest that he got this gift by setting out to be a lion tamer.
Jacob Bronowski (Science and Human Values)
Mystery is the sugar in the cup,' said the Doctor. She picked up the container of white crystals the delicatessen had included in the picnic basket and poured a large dollop into her cognac. 'I don’t think I’d do that, Gunilla,' said Darcourt. 'Nobody wants you to do it, Simon. I am doing it, and that’s enough. That is the curse of life—when people want everybody to do the same wise, stupid thing. Listen: Do you want to know what life is? I’ll tell you. Life is a drama.' 'Shakespeare was ahead of you, Gunilla,' said Darcourt. '"All the world’s a stage,"' he declaimed. 'Shakespeare had the mind of a grocer,' said Gunilla. 'A poet, yes, but the soul of a grocer. He wanted to please people.' 'That was his trade,' said Darcourt. 'And it’s yours, too. Don’t you want this opera to please people?' 'Yes, I do. But that is not philosophy. Hoffmann was no philosopher. Now be quiet, everybody, and listen, because this is very important. Life is a drama. I know. I am a student of the divine Goethe, not that grocer Shakespeare. Life is a drama. But it is a drama we have never understood and most of us are very poor actors. That is why our lives seem to lack meaning and we look for meaning in toys—money, love, fame. Our lives seem to lack meaning but'—the Doctor raised a finger to emphasize her great revelation—'they don’t, you know.' She seemed to be having some difficulty in sitting upright, and her natural pallor had become ashen. 'You’re off the track, Nilla,' said Darcourt. 'I think we all have a personal myth. Maybe not much of a myth, but anyhow a myth that has its shape and its pattern somewhere outside our daily world.' 'This is all too deep for me,' said Yerko. 'I am glad I am a Gypsy and do not have to have a philosophy and an explanation for everything. Madame, are you not well?' Too plainly the Doctor was not well. Yerko, an old hand at this kind of illness, lifted her to her feet and gently, but quickly, took her to the door—the door to the outside parking lot. There were terrible sounds of whooping, retching, gagging, and pitiful cries in a language which must have been Swedish. When at last he brought a greatly diminished Gunilla back to the feast, he thought it best to prop her, in a seated position, against the wall. At once she sank sideways to the floor. 'That sugar was really salt,' said Darcourt. 'I knew it, but she wouldn’t listen. Her part in the great drama now seems to call for a long silence.' 'When she comes back to life I shall give her a shot of my personal plum brandy,' said Yerko. 'Will you have one now, Priest Simon?
Robertson Davies (The Lyre of Orpheus (Cornish Trilogy, #3))
They are Orpheus, she is Eurydice and every time they turn back, she is ruined.
V.E. Schwab
History is a more or less bunk, the only history that is worth a damn is what we make today.
Maureen Duffy (The Orpheus Trail)
Your smile more enduring, when it illuminates your sorrow.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus)
Atop the column of spume sat an old man with fins instead of arms, and a fish tail instead of legs. “It’s Poseidon!” yelled Zetes. “It’s Oceanus!” said Atalanta. “It’s that guy from The Little Mermaid!” said Orpheus. The merman sighed and flapped his arm-fins. “Actually, I’m Glaucus. But don’t worry. No one ever gets that right.” The Argonauts muttered among themselves, trying to figure out who Glaucus was. “Oh my gods!” the ship’s prow said. “You people are embarrassing me! Glaucus was a fisherman who ate some magic herbs and became immortal. Now he’s like the Delphic Oracle of the sea!” “Ohhhh.” The crew all nodded like they knew what the prow was talking about.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Heroes (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide))
Sometimes I wish that someone come and control my life to change my bad habits and make my goals come true.
Orpheus Aku
when you let your mind and desires rule your life, then you become on the average shelf
Orpheus Aku
To his audience at John Flaxman’s home Taylor spoke of Orpheus, Hermes, Zoroaster and the ‘perennial philosophy’, the ‘primal wisdom’ of the ancients which Plato had imbibed from the sages who preceded him. Taylor was a one-man Platonic Academy, doing for the esoteric intelligentsia of late eighteenth century London what Marsilio Ficino did for the artists and poets of Renaissance Florence, with his Latin translations of the lost books of Plato and the Hermetica.55 Taylor believed that this primal wisdom was ‘coeval with the universe itself; and however its continuity may be broken by opposing systems, it will make its appearance at different periods of time, as long as the sun himself shall continue to illumine the world’.
Gary Lachman (Lost Knowledge of the Imagination)
Meaning of life Like a Tv screen Controlled by 1 thing that interests you, Once you lose it, it becomes meaningless and you start to shut off.
Orpheus Aku
It starts with your parents and people assuming that your mind is part of your vital organs, but little they know is that your mind is the actual human, and what he's moving is a piece of meat and bone. That's why it's impossible to remove a human brain like any other vital organ like your heart and replace it.
Orpheus Aku
I shall detain you no longer in the demonstration of what we should not do, but straight conduct ye to a hill side where I will point ye out the right path of a virtuous and noble education; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospect, and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus 19 was not more charming. I doubt not but ye shall have more ado to drive our dullest and laziest youth, our stocks and stubs from the infinite desire of such a happy nurture, than we have not to hale and drag our choicest and hopefulest wits to that asinine feast of sowthistles and brambles which is commonly set before them, as all the food and entertainment of their tenderest and most docible 20 age. I call therefore a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skilfully and magnanimously all the offices both private and public, of peace and war. And how all this may be done between twelve, and one and twenty, less time than is now bestowed in pure trifling at grammar and sophistry, is to be thus ordered.
Benjamin Franklin (The Complete Harvard Classics - ALL 71 Volumes: The Five Foot Shelf & The Shelf of Fiction: The Famous Anthology of the Greatest Works of World Literature)
If more gently than Orpheus who moved even the trees you were to pluck the zither the life-blood would not return to the vain shadow . . . Harsh fate, but its burden becomes lighter to bear, since everything that attempts to turn back is impossible. (I, 24) WHERE DOES THE ETERNAL CURRENT COME FROM?
Carlo Rovelli (The Order of Time)
A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (The Complete Poems)
To this epoch of ardent abstractions and impassioned logomechaies belongs the philosophical reign of Julian, an illuminatus and Initiate of the first order, who believed in the unity of God and the universal Dogma of the Trinity, and regretted the loss of nothing of the old world but its magnificent symbols and too graceful images. He was no Pagan, but a Gnostic, infected with the allegories of Grecian polytheism, and whose misfortune it was to find the name of Jesus Christ less sonorous than that of Orpheus.
Albert Pike (Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry)
Human thought discovers a mode of perpetuating itself, not only more durable and more resisting than architecture, but still more simple and easy. Architecture is dethroned. Gutenberg's letters of lead are about to supersede Orpheus's letters of stone.
Victor Hugo (Complete Works of Victor Hugo)